


my soul had known your soul (a million lifetimes ago)

by wildflower (bangtrashsyd)



Category: NU'EST, Produce 101 (TV), Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Death, Did i mention DEATH, Gen, M/M, Reincarnation, Slow Burn, as can be seen, be warned, but that would be spoilers, i was Not Happy writing this, i would tag the rest of the AUs, lots of death, produce 101 ensemble - Freeform, this is a reincarnation fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-08-16 20:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16502402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bangtrashsyd/pseuds/wildflower
Summary: “An eternity of lifetimes to go, Jonghyun-ah,” he promises, nudging Jonghyun’s cooling cup of coffee nearer to him. “Don’t worry, we’ve got plenty of time.”- aka, the reincarnation fic i started planning and writing since 2017 but never posted because i lost motivation halfway through- also, no one said "hi cam i wantmorepain and suffering in the form of 2hyun" but never fear i am here to attend to your internal masochistic desires





	1. the first lifetime, minhyun

**Author's Note:**

> so. i'm back.
> 
> sorry it took so long, my life has been fluctuating up and down and it took quite a while to get things in order. i'm not exactly on break right now so chapters will be posted irregularly, sorry for that. you can come back next year if you want a completed work to read. or not. maybe in two years. we'll see.
> 
> this was meant to be my retirement piece, because of how busy i get these days. but then again, i say i'm on "hiatus" and end up posting every day, so.
> 
> beware the warnings!! as i have said, much death. much pain. some gore. overwhelming doses of pain. be warned.
> 
> title is from Beau Taplin’s poem ‘S O U L S’. play shinee’s/ jonghyun's y si fuera ella while reading (makes it more painful)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen, if you are the music kind of person, you should really play this while reading: [painted heart by jane zhang (painted skin OST)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PRe4Dk327wg)

“You speak as if I mean you ill,” his mother mourns, placing a hand on her forehead as if to steady herself. He rears back and opens his mouth, but she holds a hand out to stop him and rises gracefully to her feet. The crimson red silk of her hanbok swirls imposingly on the floor, reminiscent of a pool of blood.

“Let me make this clear,” she orders with an unpleasant smile, the corners of her painted lips stretching up to his ears, “you are the son I chose to continue the Silla legacy.” He purses his lips. “There is a reason why I did not kill you in your youth, why I tolerated your hasty little mistakes. Do not make me regret that decision, my son.”

He closes his mouth and bows deeply, shuffling out of the room silently and bowing down even further out of the door. The servants scatter as he strides angrily down the corridor, and he waves a hand for someone to bring him a horse. A shaking boy bows, nearly a hundred degrees, and leads him to the stables. He selects the fastest steed of the lot—a young, impatient stallion with a white mane. 

“I will be back,” he says offhandedly, taking the reins. Someone runs before him and throws themselves onto the floor, forming a little stool for him to step upon. He mounts quickly, tossing the man a gold coin and clicking his heels, guiding the stallion out into the Gyerim forest. 

The wind whips past his cheeks and undos the fluttering ribbons in his long hair. Minhyun tightens his thigh muscles and holds on tight, bringing his hands up to scoop his hair together and tucking it under his collar. 

“Ride!” he commands, and his steed quickens, nearly flying out into the forest. Trees and greenery blur together into walls of green and brown, and he shuts his eyes even though he remembers he cannot for the sake of safety. His thighs slacken and immediately, the stallion jumps over a fallen log. Yelling, he bends low to hold on tightly to the horse’s neck, tightening the reins to slow the horse into a trot.

“That was hilarious,” someone chortles from the trees, and he looks up with a frown. Jonghyun drops, landing softly on the balls of his feet.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, and his old friend shrugs, holding up his bow and arrow.

“Hunting,” he says, “or, I was, until _ someone  _ scared my rabbit away.”

“If you wanted a rabbit,” Minhyun feels awfully out of his depth, "you could have asked for one from me."

“What can I say?” Jonghyun shrugs, walking forward to calm his horse with a few patient pats. “I live for the chase.”

Minhyun watches the horse nuzzle his hand, the feeling in his heart just… soft. Jonghyun catches him watching and asks with a teasing gaze, “What?”

“I’m getting married,” the words bursts out from his lips, and he sees Jonghyun grin.

“Congratulations,” the older by a few months comments. “Who’s the lucky princess?”

“Princess Minkyung of Goguryeo,” he groans, licking his lips. Jonghyun remains unbothered, coming over to the steed’s side to smooth his mane. “First daughter.”

At this, Jonghyun looks up, smiling. Minhyun thinks he sees stars in his eyes.

“You’re the lucky one, then,” he drawls, holding a hand out. Minhyun takes it, and Jonghyun vaults easily onto the steed, settling behind him. “Let’s go home, Crown Prince. Your sister will be worried.”

Minhyun turns the steed, and Jonghyun snakes his muscled arms around his waist, leaning forward to lean his cheek against the silk of his jacket. He can feel his breath at his ear, and the knowledge that Jonghyun is here, out of all places, warms him. Nudging the steed back into a trot, he asks, “Are you happy for me?”

“Yes,’ Jonghyun muses, “if you are happy, so is your lowly servant.”

“Lowly,” he scoffs. “We’ve been together since childhood, Jonghyun.”

“I was only the young rascal who patched up the bleeding Crown Prince,” Jonghyun recounts drily. Minhyun shakes with silent laughter, remembering scowls and blood all over the floor of the courtyard. A smaller hand tucked into his, and looking up to see sparkling eyes and a gentle smile. Jonghyun has changed since then, not like him. 

“You’re the consistent one,” his friend snaps, and he realises belatedly that he spoke the words out loud. “Always the same, you are.”

“Be quiet,” he bites back, shoving with the shoulder Jonghyun has his cheek on. 

“Stop,” Jonghyun slaps his back, and he tightens the reins. He slides off the back of the horse and whistles sharply, and another horse, incredibly small, comes out of the trees. The horse nickers at the sight of the three of them, and Jonghyun mounts it.

“Is that a pony?” he asks, and Jonghyun scowls. Before he can say anything to defend his steed, the horse gnashes her teeth at his stallion. The stallion bucks, spooked, and he manages to fist his hands in the horse’s mane. “What the—”

“She’s got a temper,” Jonghyun chuckles, “just like me.” Minhyun smiles to himself and coaxes his horse to go back home, with his friend trailing behind. 

 

The wedding is scheduled for the next month, and Princess Minkyung issues him a formal letter that speaks nothing of her loathing of the arrangement and just the happiness of such a royal union. Minhyun tosses the letter into the first fire he sees.

It’s a prosperous date— set for the twentieth day of the Tenth Lunar Month. Jonghyun pales when he hears the date, and disappears for a few days. Minhyun knows not what to make out of his silence, but he assumes that his friend needs time for himself. 

His mother drives him mad first with the wedding preparations, then herself. She collapses one day, laughing about the good fortune of the royal household. Minhyun reports this to the emperor, who shakes his head and sends him away without a passing glance. His sister Sujin takes over the preparations and actually asks for his opinion, so he selects the colours of blueberry purple and deep teal to accent the wedding. Sujin contacts the best dressmaker in the country, and he dyes the hanbok with blueberry and morning glory extract. 

Jonghyun reappears a few days later, with a tired smile. Minhyun meets him by their old playroom and hugs him, tight. His friend goes tight when they embrace, bowing sharply and excusing himself. Minhyun stares after him in confusion, and the court joker Ong Seongwoo rounds the corner right then. 

“Where did the young General go?” he questions, and the joker bows before thinking.

“I’m not sure, your majesty,” Seongwoo murmurs carefully, eyes lowered to the floor, “but it seems that he was called into a conference with your father before he left.”

“My father?” he echoes, creasing the skin on his forehead. His father spends less than a minute on him, why would he call on Jonghyun? Minhyun dismisses the joker and chases after the swirl of Jonghyun’s teal uniform. 

“General Kim!” he orders, and the man halts in his footsteps, turning around to face him. He’s got a smile on his face, so for one second Minhyun thinks that everything’s alright. 

“How may I help you, Crown Prince?” he asks, his smile widening painfully. There is something wrong in the absence of his smile lines.

“You’ve lost weight,” he observes. “Where did you go?”

“Goryeo, your highness,” Jonghyun answers, eyes darting around nervously. “I delivered your letter. The princess is very beautiful.”

Minhyun blinks, and a servant appears at his side.

“Sir,” she whispers, “your sister Sujin is looking for you.”

“Thank you,” he dismisses her, looking up. Jonghyun is already gone, the only indication of his appearance the scent of honey in the air. Minhyun frowns in disappointment, gesturing to the servant waiting. She bows once, then leads him to the back gardens where Sujin is waiting.

Sujin is wearing a hanbok of brilliant blue— dyed with crushed beetles, he assumes— and pacing up and down. He steps between the bushes of lavender, nearing her. She turns as he arrives, glancing up and down.

“You’ve seen the young General, I presume,” Sujin murmurs, and Minhyun nods. 

“How did you know, sister?” he asks. Sujin looks pained, and a hand comes up to scratch the back of her neck.

“The light in your eyes, the half formed smile on your lips,” she mumbles. They are in privacy of the gardens that bloomed under his sister’s hands, but even so she lowers her voice and speaks in riddles. “Minhyun… you have to marry the princess.”

“Is that not what I am doing?” he inquires in bafflement, and Sujin closes her eyes, looking torn. 

“Yes,” she says after a moment, then changes tracks. “Our country is celebrating Sandalgosa on that day, so you have to wind your golden rope yourself. The materials are already in your room, so please do it as soon as possible.”

He nods once, and Sujin takes her leave, curtseying prettily. Her trusty handmaiden appears by her side, and the both of them confer in low volumes as Sujin returns to her chambers. Minhyun waits among the flowers until the coast is clear. He knows that if their parents know that they are speaking privately, they would beat the individuality out of them—just like what they did to the other children. For a second, he thinks he sees a simple cotton hanbok the colour of teal. He walks forward, intent on seeing… does he hope it’s Jonghyun? He doesn’t know anymore.

 

There is a hand on his mouth, and he thrashes wildly, trying to cry out.

“Shh!” a familiar voice scolds. “It’s just me.”

He sits up once the hand is taken off his mouth, lighting the candle with trembling hands. Jonghyun looks fatigued, with dark eye circles and a pale face.

“What are you doing?” he asks, relaxing. Jonghyun draws his feet closer, letting go of the curtain and slipping into his mattress. “Jonghyun—”

“Did you know that it is Sonseokpong tomorrow?” he cuts him off, leaning forward. His eyes are dark, and Minhyun can see nothing of the stars he loves. “The strongest winds arrived today.”

Minhyun blinks, turning his head to observe the passing storm outside.

“I can see that,” he murmurs carefully. There is something wrong. Jonghyun’s hands are clenching around nothing, and he folds his legs. His friend sits immediately once the space is cleared… not really sitting, but more like his legs buckled. “What’s the matter? I’m getting married tomorrow.”

“Married…” Jonghyun hums emptily, looking into his face. Minhyun recognises the expression he has on now; it’s fear. “Do you know why the king called on me?”

“No,” he breathes. Jonghyun face is very close to his, the light from the candle casting odd shadows onto the walls.

“He called me because I was a distraction to the Crown Prince,” Jonghyun mumbles, “that I loved him too much to let him go.”

Minhyun’s breath catches in his throat, and Jonghyun looks up at the sound of his sharp inhale.

“I know it is true on my end, but is it true for you, Minhyun?” Jonghyun asks, eyes glittering— not with stars, but tears. Minhyun pauses.

“I ate one red pepper and teared,” he reads off a poem he remembers about love, “yet because of one tiny little piece of love I put in my mouth, I wept.”

Jonghyun’s brow creases, and Minhyun sighs.

“Yes,” he mumbles. “It is.” Jonghyun nods once, curtly, and stands from the bed. “Are you just going to leave like that?”

“You have to get married, my prince,” Jonghyun says briskly, looking down at the golden rope tossed carelessly on the floor. Minhyun makes a sound of protest, and the expression on Jonghyun’s face softens. He leans close, whispering next to his ear, “We have twenty four lifetimes to go, your highness.” Jonghyun presses his lips chastely to his cheek, then draws back with a smile. “See you in the next one.”

He escapes in the middle of the night, jumping out of Minhyun’s window into the storm. Jonghyun hesitates halfway, looking back at him. The drops of rainwater roll off his face in rivulets, darkening his brown hair to a flat black. In that scene, with his pale face, black hair and black coat jacket, Jonghyun looks almost monochrome and lifeless. 

He opens his mouth, but his old friend gives him a smile and a wave, then disappears from this lifetime forever. 

 

“Father,” his daughter holds his hand, “won’t you stay longer?”

“No, dear,” he groans, feeling his soul slip away, “I’ve got someone else waiting for me… in my next lifetime.”


	2. the second lifetime, jonghyun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nu'est w's new comeback got me so shook i forgot to post lmao sorry 'bout that

This time,  _ he’s  _ the prince. 

It has been twenty one years and still no sight of Minhyun, so Jonghyun keeps his head down and does his royal duties well. The place he is staying in is a state called ‘Balhae’, the northern part. His tutor informs him that Silla had occupied most of the country, but Balhae emerged as a successor state of Gorguryeo. His parents treat him more kinder than the ones in the previous lifetime did. He supposes his parents now are better than Minhyun’s old parents as well.

“Jonghyun,” his military advisor calls gently, “your father calls.”

He rises from his chair, setting the brush made of horsehair aside and instructing a servant boy to roll the letter up, and carefully. His feet make no sound against the warm floor, courtesy of the engineers. When he arrives in his father’s personal chambers, the guards announce his arrival before opening the doors. 

“Prince Jonghyun,” his father rumbles, “you have done well. An emperor from Silla has asked for your hand in marriage.” His heart leaps when he hears the word ‘Silla’—it has been long since he gazed upon it: trawled through the hidden treasures of the night markets in the back alleys of Hanseong and rode through the leafy evergreen of the Gyerim forest. “Do you agree to this proposal?”

He ponders over it. There has been no talk about Minhyun, or even someone that matches the description of ‘ethereal beauty’. He supposes he has more luck finding him in his hometown than here.

“I agree, father,” he bows, low. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

His father does not speak for a few moments, so Jonghyun rises slightly from the bow to look into his eyes. There is a sheen of tears in his eyes—

“You are a good son,” his father says finally. “I hope you find happiness in Silla.”

“Thank you, father,” he swallows back a lump in his throat. This man was the man who taught him how to ride a horse, how to swim in the lake surrounding the gardens, how to read maps in the war council room… This man was the man who taught him everything he knows. “I will make you proud.” 

He bows and retreats from the room, but his king calls out when he is by the doorway.

“My son,” his voice is loud and strong, the representative of his very personality, “you already have.”

 

He prepares for the seven day journey by finding a horse. The food and drink are to be packed by the royal kitchen, and he has guards tracking him all the way to Silla before returning home. The servant he favours—the Chinese one, from the Tang Court of China—is to come with him as well. He says his name is ‘Guanlin’, so Jonghyun calls him Guanlin when no one is around. He is especially fond of the servant; not child, yet not quite man. A youth, he is.

“My lord,” the servant touches his elbow timidly, “this is the fastest horse. But, she is not easy to ride.”

Jonghyun lays his eyes on the beautiful creature his servant has picked out for him.

“Not easy to ride?” he asks softly, reaching a hand out to place it fearlessly on the horse’s forehead. He keeps his touch gentle, but presses down lightly. The horse nickers softly, then bows her head. “I will ride her to Silla. Guanlin, have my old mare. She is trustworthy, especially since you have never ridden.”

Guanlin tilts his chin down, and scampers off to somewhere else. Jonghyun watches him go, then his eyes drift off to a servant holding a pile of laundry. The servant is watching him too. 

 

The Hwabaek are out in front to receive him with their navy blue robes. He recognises the uniform, although it has been altered. In his last lifetime, he had been in talks to create the Hwabaek before he ran away.

“Prince Jonghyun,” they bow, attaining the ninety degree bow of respect easily. He holds his tongue, and they remain in the bow for nearly a minute. Marvelling at their training, he tells them to rise and hands his things off to the servants. One of the Hwabaek step out, a man with a pretty, delicate face. He has a black belt around his waist, which Jonghyun assumes must be a symbol of leadership.

“My name is Choi Minki, sacred bone,” he bows. In his previous lifetime, he had been a true bone. He knows the significance of the move. It means that the current emperor is serious about this arrangement. “Let me lead you to your quarters.”

“Thank you,” he nods, and the man smiles, not unkindly. He is led through well kept gardens and he catches a bush of blueberries. Calling out for Minki to stop, he plucks a blueberry to eat—it is sour, just like he expected. He smiles secretively, and joins Minki in the front.

The Silla palace ground was never good for growing blueberries. 

 

The wedding is held during Sambok, the hottest day of the summer. He is to wear a silk gwanbok, but as the servants dress him, drops of sweat have already formed on his top lip. The lead maiden frowns and sends for a bowl of powder, and he holds out his limbs so she can pat the powder all over him. He is not sure if it will work, but the powder smells like peaches. The scent reminds him of Minhyun and his penchant for peach teas in the summer.

Over the past month, it has become clear to him that the emperor wants him for his brain. Tales of his skill in battle strategy have flown far and wide, it seems. He has sent out three platoons of men to defend the Silla borders already. There is obviously a consort for reproduction of the line, but the emperor put in thought to tie him down next to him. Jonghyun, for the most part, is pleased that all he has to do is take care of his soldiers. 

“Your Highness,” the lead maiden bows, and Guanlin opens the doors. He’s normally dressed in a simple green hanbok, but today he wears the rich blue of the Hwabaek as a honorary member. Jonghyun nods for Guanlin to enter, and the youth smiles brightly at him. He waves the servants away, and Guanlin says, “You look fantastic, your highness.”

“I should hope so,” he drawls, “I’m melting in this get up.”

“I’ll bring you to the palanquin,” the servant chirps, opening the door. Jonghyun strides out of the room, walking down the corridor. He pauses at the painting of  [ Gyeongju Kim ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kim_\(Korean_surname\)#Gyeongju) , Minhyun’s alias.  _ See you soon,  _ he wishes, then moves out of the building. It will be the last time he is here, before moving into the close quarters of the Emperor. When he leaves, the servants will clean up after him and prepare the house for the next concubine. Sighing, he moves towards the palanquin, trying not to trip on the bottom of the heavy gwanbok. A servant holds aside the curtain so he can step inside the glorified painted box. He settles down. The seat is uncomfortable, and the thin pillow does him no favours. 

His legs start to cramp after ten minutes, and they arrive at the court nearly thirty minutes later. Jonghyun swallows the bile in his throat from all the rocking, and steps out as gracefully as he can. Someone catches him when he sways, then backs off hurriedly. Jonghyun lifts the hem of his gwanbok and moves with tiny steps to see the emperor.

The first thing he sees when he enters the court is someone who looks like Minhyun playing the gayageum. His heart rate quickens, but he continues walking. The emperor takes his hand to assist him, and he faces the emperor calmly. His eyes drift to glance at the gayageum players during the ceremony, but he does everything correctly and so it is acceptable. 

Minhyun finally looks up when the music comes to a halt, then does a double take when he sees him. Jonghyun cracks a smile as he looks at the emperor, and his counterpart look concerned.

“You look pained,” his ruler murmurs, “is something the matter?”

“No,” he responds, warming up his smile. “I’m happy.”

 

The Emperor notices his liking for music and sends a different gayageum player to his quarters every week while he plans. He doesn’t mind the music, just the knowledge that the players disappear from his sight every week.

 

One day, a gayageum player plays a piece different from all the other ones he have heard. He calls the player to his study, and questions him.

“The pieces they play are composed by Ureuk of Gara,” Minhyun says, eyes not lifting from the floor and chin tilted down, “but I write my own pieces, your Highness.”

“Of course you would,” he laughs, and Minhyun looks up. He gives his old friend a smile. “You look well.”

“Thank you for your concern, your Highness,”  Minhyun murmurs. He seems to be aware of the listening ears outside. There is a shuffling of feet outside, and he relaxes when he hears the men disappear for their afternoon break. “This life is better.”

“I know,” Jonghyun stretches languidly, setting his brush down. “I am grateful that I married well.” Something flickers in Minhyun’s eyes then—a flash of pure anger, then the expression calms to his usual placidness. “Can you play the original pieces for me?”

“Of course, your Highness,” Minhyun bows, retreating to the corner of his room where the gayageum sits. “This one is called ‘What Is The Truth’.”

 

Minhyun plays him six songs, but there is one that makes his eyes tear. They title it ‘Daybreak’, and Minhyun plays it for two days. Jonghyun falls asleep in the study room to the sound of Minhyun’s fingers on the strings, and wakes the morning to find him still there in a fresh robe. The Emperor follows his instructions and Silla receives three successful troops with minimal deaths. Instead of attending the welcoming ceremony, Jonghyun decides to be selfish and stay holed up in his room. When the Emperor sends for him, he sends Guanlin to tell him that he has taken ill. 

Seven days is a short time. In seven days, he spends every waking moment hearing Minhyun play. He writes seven pieces of essays on how to successfully combat a closed attack. He sleeps. Seven days come to an end all too quick. On the last day, he asks, “What happened to all the other players?”

Minhyun smiles gently.

“They died,” he murmurs, “for being too close. They are soldiers ready at the door outside.”

“Why?” he mourns. It’s not as if he doesn’t  _ know  _ why they haven’t made an appearance. “Why did you come if you knew?”

“Like you said, Jonghyun,” Minhyun rises, setting the gayageum down on its little pillow. There’s a strange quirk to the corners of his lips. “We have twenty three lifetimes to go, your highness.” 

“See you in the next one,” Jonghyun finishes. Minhyun walks a little closer and grasps his shoulder, then steps off the dais and moves towards the door. 

Jonghyun closes his eyes and claps his hands over his ears, but he still can  _ sense  _ the loss of a soul in his courtyard. It is the most sickening feeling he has ever felt—a hot, unexplainable sense of ultimate loss sliding around his neck like a poisonous snake. He knows the moment Minhyun leaves; his heart breaks cleanly into two. He’s read plenty of poems about heartbreak. This will be his second time… and certainly not his last, if the next twenty three years are the same as the first two. Will they ever get a happy ending? Or is a happy ending not written in their stars?

 

The next morning, Jonghyun attends court with his essays and a pale countenance. The Emperor nods when he begs him to never let him hear the music from a gayageum ever again. 


	3. the third lifetime, minhyun

“Hwang,” his king orders, “your mission is to retrieve information and kill the general of the Later Baekje army. You leave tomorrow, alone.” 

“Yes, your highness,” he says in deference, then bows out of court. 

Baekje, it seems, has declined. In this lifetime, he grew up in Taebong, until his current king overthrew the previous one and renamed it Goryeo after the ancient kingdom of Goguryeo. Minhyun remembers his wife, Minkyung. She had been a worthy partner, full of life and very engaged in politics. His king says that he comes from Goguryeo blood, and it shows.

Goryeo has been fighting with Baekje for dominance for a while—the war happens a little too close to Silla for comfort, so he makes sure to stay clear of his first kingdom whenever he leads an expedition. He’s never done a mission by himself, so this will be the first time. 

As he walks, his sword jabs a little into his thigh. It’s covered, so it draws no blood, but he adjusts the belt around his waist uneasily. 

He turns to look back at the palace. There is someone entering the court—someone with hair shorn closely to his head and dressed in black. It’s too far away to see his face, but he swears he sees the person turn to observe him before moving into the palace.

 

He’s blending in well. Ha. Not really.

He stands out a head taller than the general populace. When he moves, people make startled sounds and cower away from him, so he’s not exactly incognito. A child stops him, and he bends down on one knee to look at her.

“You’re not from here, are you?” she asks, eyes inquisitive. He shrugs. 

“Why?” he inquires back. “I don’t look like anyone you’ve met?”

The girl smiles, beams even. 

“Well,” she announces, “I haven’t lived for very long.” Almost instantly, a foot crashes down on his back, and he slumps forwards, cheek hitting the hardened soil with a thud. 

“What-” he begins, but the girl skips away to receive a bag of what seems like coins and a ruffle on the head. He’s been trapped, and he scowls into the dirt. “What do you want?”

“Oh, it’s not what  _ we  _ want,” someone pulls his chin up by the hair so they can stare into his eyes. He’s seen this person before… from… somewhere. He can’t place the face, but he’s quite sure… “It’s what the general wants.”

“You’re a soldier?” he asks. The boy in uniform scowls and socks him in the face. His nose breaks, and he tastes blood in his mouth. At the same time, a coil of rope is tied around his wrists behind his back. 

“Yes,” the soldier bites, dragging him up on his feet and shoving a blade under his chin. “Now, you play nice, and we won’t hurt you.”

“You already have,” he chokes out, and the soldier frowns.

“It was an accident,” the pesky little bugger decides, hauling him onto a horse. Minhyun taps his heels together, but the horse refuses to move, instead bucking a little bit and giving him a little heart attack as he tries to stay on with his hands tied. On the bright side, he’s getting a free ride to his target. On the down side… he will most likely not survive the night.

The sun is setting, colours of orange and yellow painted across the blue sky. He grimaces at the sight and tenses the muscles of his thighs as the horse begins to move.

 

They pass a statue of Buddha at the front of the general’s home. It must be an ancient piece, from Baekje, for the statue sports the distinctive Baekje smile—a smile both warm and benevolent. He glances up at the house and marvels at the intricate etching of a lotus flower on the roof tiles and the patterns on the red bricks. There is a banner of white paper out front with the words ‘General’ lettered in black ink on it.

“Guanlin!” Someone calls, and the soldier waves at the man standing out in the front. “Who’s—Is that Hwang?”

“Pleased to meet you,” he gasps out, tilting sideways and toppling off the horse. Someone catches him before he breaks his spine, straightening him out. The man has a delicate look to his face, and he scowls disapprovingly.

“Strip him,” he orders, and Minhyun protests, yelping when the servants begin to rip off his clothes. “Put him in new clothes, and send him up to the office.”

“Yes, Lord Choi,” Guanlin bows sharply, and the man gives him another look before whirling into the house. 

 

The experience is uncomfortable. Being manhandled into clothes in red—the very  _ opposite  _ of what he’s supposed to wear to stay incognito—is painful, and he has his hair combed very roughly by one of the servants. His hands are still tied together, and he has very small shoes on. His feet hurt as they march him up to the General’s office. 

“The illustrious Mr. Hwang,” the General says drily when he sees him. It’s the same man from before, except he’s sitting in the only chair in the room, so he must be the general. “I don’t suppose you’re here for a visit.”

“No,” he smiles. “I’m here for information.”

“And what makes me think I will give it to you?” Lord Choi muses, picking a dagger off the table and picks at his fingernails with it. “I could just kill you right now.”

“You know my name,” he huffs in return. “Tell me yours.”

The general smiles, and even Minhyun, with his senses, cannot tell if it is genuine. The man before him is like a doll; his faces all look genuine yet are capable of switching away quickly. 

“Lord Choi Minki the Third,” his counterpart points the knife at him. “The Piercer.”

Minhyun closes his eyes: the Later Baekje general’s talent for archery and daggers is not unknown to him. “Did you come to kill me, Hwang?”

“Just for information,” he promises, smiling. Minki’s smile sours and he rears back his hand, tossing the dagger at him. He doesn’t have time to step out of the way, and the dagger whistles past the side of his head, slicing off a tuft of hair. Steadying his breathing, he spits, “You could have cut me.”

“Wrong,” Minki responds, tilting his head to the side, “I could have killed you. Tell me the truth.”

“King Taejo wants information…” he reveals, “as well as the General’s head.”

Minki grins.

“It’s a good thing I’m not the General,” he sighs, walking past him to open the door. “I think you’d want to meet my brother, now.”

“What?” he asks, and Minki winks at him.

“Jonghyun!” he calls out into the corridor, and Minhyun’s heart stops beating for one second.

Jonghyun billows through the doors like a summer breeze, and Minhyun stumbles towards him by instinct. Instantly, Jonghyun has a knife in his hand pointed at his throat. 

“Do not move,” Jonghyun murmurs, his voice like a caress. “Or I will slit your throat.”

“Jonghyun—” he begins, looking into his friend’s eyes. Yet there is no trace of recognition in his eyes at all. Jonghyun tosses the knife onto the floor in front of him and makes his way to the dais, taking a seat at the table. There’s a creaking noise behind them, and Minhyun turns his head to watch Minki close the doors behind him in the mirror. 

“How much did Taejo pay you?” Jonghyun demands, taking out a sheet of paper and a brush. 

“Seventeen boxes of gold,” he says absently, watching Jonghyun write. “A new horse from the Manchu breed, and four bolts of silk.” Jonghyun scoffs at that, looking up.

“That is a high price,” he observes, then nods to the knife at his feet. “Pick that up, and cut yourself free.”

“Why?” he asks, and Jonghyun’s eyes are flinty.

“Not anyone can just barge in and try to kill me,” he rolls his neck. “You’ve got to be of certain standard.”

“Jonghyun—” he bends down and turns, picking up the knife and sliding the blade against his bonds. “Do you remember?”

“Oh, yes.” Jonghyun’s voice is too close,  _ too close.  _ He turns, brandishing the knife, and Jonghyun headbutts him in the face. He feels his nose break one more time, and Jonghyun clucks his tongue before swiping his feet out from underneath him. Landing hard on his back, he wheezes for breath. The knife clatters out of his hand onto the floor, and Jonghyun seizes it, putting it to his neck.

“You’ve gotten sloppy,” he notes. “But then again, I was more the soldier out of the both of us.”

“You remember,” Minhyun breathes, “yes?”

“I remember that you died needlessly the last time,” Jonghyun argues, standing up and offering him a hand. “That was a foul. You didn’t need to die.”

“Tell me how was I supposed to survive,” he rolls his eyes and takes the hand, pulling himself upright. “There were soldiers outside!”

“Then you shouldn’t have come in the first place,” Jonghyun snaps. “I felt you  _ go,  _ Minhyun. Best friends don’t watch each other die.”

“We’ll die together this time, then,” Minhyun bites, looking around the office. He catches a glimpse of a soldier, and he narrows his eyes. There’s a noise in the hallway, and Jonghyun goes out to check. “What happened—”

Jonghyun collapses, and Minhyun’s brain short circuits. He drags his best friend in by the feet and shuts the doors. The paper covering the sliding doors give them no protection, but he can see the shadows of the bodies outside. If the intruder is coming in from the hallways, he’ll be able to see him. 

“What happened?” he hisses quietly, and Jonghyun groans in pain, cupping a hand to his stomach. When he tugs the limb free, he realises that the cloth there is soaked through with blood and there’s a arrow stuck in the skin. “Oh,  _ no.” _

“No time,” Jonghyun hisses. “Get to the dais. Open the cupboard under the table and go inside. It’s a staircase.”

“What about you?” he growls back. Jonghyun has the energy to slap his upper arm.

“Carry me, idiot,” he gasps, before his eyes roll back in his head. Minhyun holds Jonghyun under the armpits and hauls him backwards, hiking him up the dais and opening the cupboard. There are shouts and screams outside, then Minhyun opens the cupboard.

His first mistake is turning his back on Jonghyun. His second mistake is not learning from the past. 

Jonghyun shoves him into the tunnel by pushing his back, and he topples into it before landing on some grass. There’s a lantern lit, and he takes it, looking back up. The tunnel is dug large enough for one man to climb through, and the drop is only two metres. He straightens up and holds the lantern above his head to illuminate Jonghyun’s face, but his best friend puts a finger to his lips and closes the door of the cupboard.

The next moment, Jonghyun demands, “How dare you?”

“My name is Fu Longfei of the Manchu Horse Riders,” the voice that comes is smooth. “I’ve come to gather information and kill you.”

Jonghyun laughs, almost wheezing. Minhyun claps a hand over his mouth to keep himself from crying out. There’s a bad feeling in his chest.

“You can kill me,” Jonghyun gasps, “but I will never betray my country.”

“Tell me,” Longfei voice is a low murmur, “what has your country ever done for you? You are a brave man, General Choi. But you are too naive.”

Jonghyun huffs out a laugh.

“Any last words?” Longfei asks.

“Twenty-two,” Jonghyun gasps, breath growing short. Below, Minhyun drops to his knees into the dried hay and covers his mouth with both hands. “And damn you, Fu Longfei. I don’t just let  _ anybody  _ kill me.”

There’s the sound of a dagger being unsheathed, and then a small shout. Minhyun’s throat constricts, and he bends forward, curling into himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a relatively short & fast paced one cos i'm still in Japan, sorry! hope u enjoyed this tho :)


	4. the fourth lifetime, jonghyun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late upload! things were weird at home and stuffz

“Kono naka de dore ga ichiban ii kana?” he asks.  _ Which one is the best among these? _ He steps out of the way as a peasant carts a load of dried fish past him. The Japanese trader standing in front grins and points to the bag of lavender leaves. He pays the trader and moves along quickly, darting around the wet streets of Byeokrando.

Byeokrando is a trading port close to the capital of Goryeo, but you would never have thought so if you never travelled. Byeokrando is dirty and filled with settlers—the people here speak a smattering of Han Chinese, Japanese and even a little bit Arabic. The port receives three new boats each day, and only one leaves every day. That means that the port is always cluttered, always busy, always stretched to its limit. Jonghyun’s family made a good choice by building a more docking sites at the port; it makes a lot of money especially when the traders from the Abbasid dynasty visit with their spices. 

Kaesong, their capital, is different. The roofs there are inlaid with mother of pearl and the state is so small that the nobles living there all know each other. Jonghyun himself is the son of Byeokrando’s hyeonbaek, or, the ‘marquis’.

The ships come often and leave slowly, so the port is nearly exploding at the seams. A few months ago, his older brother Jisung wrote to the emperor with a plan on building better ports to facilitate trade and generate income to lift the people out of poverty. After the plan was passed, they had been busy every single day. His littlest brother Jihoon is off at the port directing boats to the newly built ports every day.

“Jonghyun-oppa!” his sister calls from the town square. “I’ve got a new contact for the spices…” He lets her chatter as they walk home, keeping an eye out for the thieves that patrol the area. 

Home for them is atop a small hill. It’s simple and made out of wood, but it is enough for their family of ten. Occasionally, some relatives do come and make pit stops, and during those times it is a struggle to live together with only one outhouse. But other than that, on a usual day like this, it’s alright. Jihyun bounds into the house and reports to their father, a stern, retired fisherman. Jonghyun removes his shoes and heads off into his room to study for the Seungbo and Eumseo in order to attend the next level of education in the capital. He’s already failed the first time, he doesn’t need to fail again.

 

It’s a few weeks later when word of pirates come to the port. One of the few Arab traders who speak a little bit of the Kaesong dialect report to him with a shake of his head. Jonghyun leaves the meeting in disappointment—the trader refuses to come back to these seas until the pirates are gone.

Other reports come in saying that the pirates carry a purple flag, sometimes people even say it’s pink. The ship is built in the Japanese style, they murmur, out of wood painted red. When it sails under the afternoon sun, the entire ship looks like it’s been painted in blood. Jonghyun scoffs at that, it is most likely a scare tactic. He questions the pub, drinks a few shots of soju, then returns home to pen down his observations. 

It is obvious to him that this will be a one man mission. He cannot bring any of the girls—they are too precious. The twins, Jihyun and Junghyun, are most likely to enter court when they grew older. Jisung is in the capital, and busy. Even if he sends a letter, he will not return home in time. Jihoon is busy enough at the port. He groans and rubs at his brow. One man mission it is. 

“Hyung?” Jihoon taps lightly on the wooden frame of his screen doors. “Can we talk?”

“Yes,” he waves him in. “What is it?”

“I’ve heard talk of pirates in the water just East of the port,” Jihoon sighs. “We need to do something about it.”

“I will be going to meet the pirates,” Jonghyun says lightly, reaching forward to ruffle his brother’s hair. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

“I should go with you,” Jihoon mutters, but Jonghyun frowns.

“No,” he says authoritatively. “I will go, and you will stay and take over my job. Okay?” Jihoon blinks, with tears in his eyes. They both know the chances of him coming home is slim. 

 

He tells the twins that he’s going out to meet a friend, and they grin and chatter among themselves, teasing him about not having a girlfriend. He rolls his eyes goodnaturedly and hugs them one last time, pats his mother on the shoulder and smiles to his father, then walks out of his home. 

He’s sent a letter to Jisung via horse, which means the older will only receive it in the morning, making it too late for him to try and save him or something. Jihoon accompanies him to the docks. On the way, he hugs the sellers goodbye, offering a wave to the children in the alleys as he goes. They stare after him mournfully, and he sets his jaw, moving forward.

The boat he’s bought off an old friend is a small one—sufficient for its only passenger. 

“Remember,” Jihoon says solemnly, “East of the port.”

“Bye, Jihoon,” he clasps his brother’s hand, then pushes him slightly away so he can paddle out to sea. When he turns back, he sees the little town all lit up and a group of people at the port holding lanterns. They’re waving goodbye, he realises, and he raises a hand in response, eyes drifting to look at Jihoon. His brother is smiling tightly and waving enthusiastically. He gives him a nod, then turns back to steering the boat. 

 

He catches a glimpse of the red boat just as the first of the sun rays hit the water, turning the blue sea into a glittering gold. Under the sunrise, the boat look like something out of a horror folk tale.

The boy on duty sees him drifting alongside the boat and leans over, narrowing his eyes.

“INTRUDER!” he hollers, then pauses. 

“If I was an intruder, I would have killed you already,” he says kindly. “Drop a rope down, will you?”

The watchguard scratches his head and shrugs, turning away and dangling a rope down. Jonghyun seizes the rope and pulls on his pack of supplies, finding little footholds in the ship’s exterior as he ascends the side. The watchguard pulls him over the rail onto the boat, then grabs him roughly and hauls him to what he assumes is the Captain’s room.

He knocks on the door sharply, and someone on the other side instructs them to enter. Jonghyun stumbles in first, raising his eyes to observe the first person he sees. 

There’s a willowy teenager standing in the corner with a gun in his hand. The first thing he thinks is,  _ ‘Wow, that is  _ such  _ a small face,”  _ before he is shoved down on his knees in front of the desk. 

“Who is this?” the youth with the small face interrogates. Jonghyun opens his mouth.

“I am the son of Byeokrando’s hyeonbaek, the marquis,” he tells the floor in Japanese. He hears a sharp intake of breath and looks up on reflex, mouth dropping open when he sees the person at his desk. “Good lord, Minhyun, what have you done to your  _ hair?” _

The captain chokes promptly, putting the wooden cup on the table.

“Both of you,” he dismisses, “out.”

“Hyung,” Small-Face protests, but Minhyun puts a hand on his shoulder and steers him out of the door after the watchman, then shuts it and bolts it across. Jonghyun cannot seem to stop gaping. Minhyun has hair down to his chin, shorn short and looking like it’s been chopped off with a knife. He has green eyes this time, and the shape of his face is slightly different, but it’s him. It’s him, Jonghyun’s found him in this life—

Minhyun turns, breathing hard, and punches him across the face.

“I guess I deserved that,” he mumbles, looking back at Minhyun and wiping at his nose. Minhyun is still a lousy fighter, so his nose bridge is still intact. “How have you been, old friend?”

“You’re a lousy piece of shit,” Minhyun curses some more, but Jonghyun tunes him out and lets his eyes wander across the room. There’s a big map on the wall, and he sees a plot of land named ‘Liao Dynasty’ and something on top of Goryeo named ‘Jurchen’. He frowns at it. There’s a little strip of land named ‘Hei-an’, and a little dot off centre named ‘Heian-kyō’. He looks back at Minhyun when his friend stops cursing to peer at his face.

“What happened to your face?” he asks in shock, stepping forward. Jonghyun shrugs.

“My cheek got caught in a fish hook when I was a kid,” he shakes free of the rope tied loosely around his wrists and rubs at the red marks. “Just a scratch.”

Minhyun frowns and returns to his seat.

“What’s your story?” Jonghyun settles in the seat that Small-Face vacated. Minhyun looks nervous when he sits down in it, eyes darting to the door as if to make sure it’s bolted.

“Grew up in Heinan,” he points. “Got sold off to the Wukou, the Japanese pirates. They practically take anyone in. I picked up Korean because the guy who was my mentor was Korean.”

“Ah,” he says delicately. “Look, Byeokrando is my home. Can your lot stay clear of it?”

Minhyun tilts his head.

“One condition,” he insists, “you sail with us.”

Jonghyun scowls.

“Me,” he mutter flatly, “as a pirate.”

“It will be fun, and you don’t have to do anything since all the posts are filled,” Minhyun coaxes. “You can be my second assistant.”

“What about Small-Face?” he inquires, drumming his fingers on the kid’s chair. Minhyun furrows his eyebrows in thought, then laughs when he realises who Jonghyun is referring to.

“Jinyoung!” he chuckles. “He’ll be fine, just a little protective.”

“Okay, so I become a pirate and you leave my port alone?” he checks, and Minhyun shrugs. 

“I’m the captain,” he picks up a sort of fruit from the table and bites into it. “And I’ll let you cut my hair.”

“Fair enough,” he shrugs. “But you have to let me say goodbye.”

 

“This is not what I meant when I said ‘say goodbye’,” he chokes out of the rope around his neck.

“Deal with it, your highness,” Minhyun deadpans, making him stand on top of the bowsprit. He wobbles slightly against the winds, and Minhyun reaches out to steady him. “Now look terrified.”

He puts on a suitable look of desperation, and the ship comes to a stop at the pier. Jonghyun looks down and sees Jihoon staring at the both of them in shock. 

“People of Byeokrando!” Minhyun shouts, and Jonghyun jumps. “I have taken this man as a payment, in exchange for your safe waters!”

“Let him go!” Jihoon yells back. “That is my  _ brother,  _ how  _ dare  _ you—”

“You can say bye now,” Minhyun hisses into Jonghyun’s ear, “this is getting really messy.”

“Jonghyun-oppa!” he sees the twins crying, and he winces, before slumping dramatically to the floor and curling his hand around Minhyun’s ankle.

“Go, go, go!” he hisses, and Minhyun waves once before ducking down and dragging him off the bowsprit. Jinyoung is waiting below, arms crossed and looking very unamused. “Okay, let’s go.”

“That’s your family,” Jinyoung points out. Jonghyun grins and whistles, and his house raven lands on his hand. He removes the letter he’s written and ties it to the string it has wrapped around one claw, then sends it away. Minhyun nudges him playfully with his shoulder, and Jonghyun grimances, reaching up to grab him by a lock of hair.

“We’re going to cut your hair,” he announces, dragging him along, “now.”

 

In this lifetime, they are co-captains of The Red Jewel, also known as the unofficial protector of the Byeokrando port. Jihoon communicates with him via raven, while he and his crew sail further into Goryeo, returning back to Byeokrando every few weeks to check on them.

Their first and last mistake in this life is being too cocky. They sail out to the Liao Dynasty to collect protection money off the ports, and return to Byeokrando being besieged by another boat. Minhyun frowns as he studies the flag, and hollers for the cannons to fire. 

Jonghyun grabs a pistol off the weapons chest, as well as a sword strapped to his waist. 

“Do you  _ know  _ how to fire that?” Minhyun asks, running past him to grab a rifle. Jonghyun shrugs and grins over at Jinyoung, who quirks his lips in reply. 

They line up next to the ship and fire, shouting when the other ship fires back even more quickly. Jonghyun growls and leads the charge, running overboard and jumping onto the opposing ship, shooting with his pistol and landing with a roll. Someone kicks him in the side immediately, and he springs up on his feet, responding with a punch. 

He draws the pistol and fires at everyone without a red headband, then flings the rifle away once it runs out of gunpowder, drawing his sword. 

He hasn’t had enough practice with the sword in this life, but he manages to cut down two dozen pirates before someone hits his head with—something. Jonghyun slumps forwards, head ringing.

“Hey!” he hears, and he groans, because of  _ course  _ Minhyun as to try and save him. It doesn’t work out too well, for his best friend slumps to the floor next to him a moment later, groaning. 

_ “Best friends don’t watch each other die, do they, Jonghyun?” _

He smiles weakly, and then he hears the click.


	5. the fifth lifetime, minhyun

“Doctor Hwang,” the little peasant girl from out front runs in through the door, wiping her dirty feet at the mat before approaching him. “Doctor Hwang, there’s a man injured.”

“Who?” he asks, following her as she runs back out. There’s someone groaning on the ground, with blood staining the cotton of his pants. 

“What the hell happened?” he holds a hand out to the girl to stop her from talking, and cups the man’s face in his hands. There is blood smeared across his face, along with the dried remains of both sweat and tears. The gash on his cheek weeps with blood, and there is an indentation in his hair that  _ could  _ have been marked by a bullet. “Explain what happened.”

“Soldiers thought I stole,” the man—no, boy—groans, holding up his hand. “Help me, Hwang.”

“Did you steal?” he demands, placing his hands all over his body. There’s nothing unusual, so he sighs and grabs the boy, heaving him to his feet. The girl goes over to the other side to help support, and he smiles kindly at her in thanks. “Can you feel your leg?”

“No,” the boy sobs, and he sighs, hefting him onto the little mattress. Quickly, he strips away the fabric and pours cool water over it, using a piece of cloth to clean the blood so he can see what he’s looking at. 

There’s a bullet plunged in an inch deep into the boy’s thigh. So, it  _ is _ shock that prevents him from feeling the leg.

“Knock him out,” he instructs, and the girl nods furiously, pressing her fingers into the boy’s body. Minhyun is not sure what she is doing, but her father used to be an acupuncturist, so there’s that. And, she’s helped him enough with plenty of patients for him to trust her. He removes the pair of tweezers he bought at Kaesong and focuses, dipping the tip of the instrument into the hole. He wipes absently at the blood, working quickly, and deposits the bullet into a little cloth pouch. 

“Needle,” he holds out a hand. The girl passes him needle and thin thread, which he uses to sew up the wound. “Okay, now we do the herbal packs.”

 

Being a doctor is not easy. Being a  _ village  _ doctor is even harder.

With how far away he is from the capital, Namgyeong, he can never get enough supplies. There is only one way in and out of this village, through the forests. The forests are treacherous in the day and downright dangerous at night. His weekly trips out to the mountains to collect herbs for his clinic is hard enough, not to mention the bi-monthly horse ride through the uneven terrain to the city. 

What astounds him is how this boy made it through the forest with a bullet in his leg, even after being chased by guards. The next city with any form of governance is two miles away, and  _ then _ there is the forest to go through. He shakes his head, applying the cloth with the herbal paste. 

The boy stirs in his sleep, groaning, and Minhyun reaches up to smooth a hand over his brow, soothing him back to sleep. He opens up the cloth bag with the bullet, goes over to the little bucket of water to rinse off the blood, and frowns. 

This is not a soldier’s bullet, he reckons. It’s a newer model, evident from the lotus design carved onto it. The bullets from the soldiers’ guns are basic, but there is beauty in the bullet in his hands. Someone must have had the time to patiently carve out this pattern, or else taken in the extra effort to reproduce these. He doesn’t know who the people who shot are, but he glances down at the boy with trepidation in his eyes. 

A bullet like this means many things. It could mean that this boy is dangerous— _ look at him, _ his heart protests,  _ he’s just a kid! _ —or this boy has a dark past. Whatever it is, he can’t have him darkening his doorstep. 

At that moment, the kid makes a soft groaning sound and opens his eyes. He meet his gaze evenly, and the kid—with soft brown eyes—whispers: “You saved me, Minhyun-ah.”

His jaw hangs open immediately. Now that he has spoken, he’s sure he recognises him a little more. 

“Jonghyun?” he asks in disbelief, and the youth grins weakly, trying to sit up. He stands up and supports him, helping him lean against the wall. “You’re… a child!”

“And you’re old,” Jonghyun snaps back, a pout beginning to form on his lips. Minhyun resists the urge to giggle and tries to school his expression into one of sterness. 

“You didn’t get shot by  _ soldiers,”  _ he scolds, “these are bullets from the bandits.”

“Smart,” Jonghyun praises, sitting up properly and resting against the wall. He eyes his friend—miniaturized!—who is staring back at him with a cheerful gaze. If he peers closer, he can see the dark eye bags around his eyes and the defensive, closed off way he’s holding himself. 

“What did you do?” Minhyun sighs, and Jonghyun shrugs.

“Bandits took my sister, Suhyeon,” he murmurs. “I broke her out, but I got caught when I was setting fire to the armoury.”

Minhyun sighs and holds up the bullet, rolling it between his fingers. Jonghyun’s gaze narrows down on the object.

“You picked a fight,” he says grimly. “And now, the fight will come to this village.”

Jonghyun pales, turning even whiter.

“I can leave?” His statement sounds like a question. Minhyun purses his lips and crosses his arms, tilting the bullet into Jonghyun’s open palms and folding his fingers. He places them under his chin, sitting forward. 

“They will torch everywhere you have been to close in on you,” Minhyun sighs, standing up to pace. “Whether you leave or not, they will come.”

Jonghyun closes his eyes and leans back against the wall. Like this, Minhyun can see the General; the man who never had a childhood, the man who fought his way through class discrimination (not that it is that much better now) in his first lifetime to even survive, the man who disappeared not for his own personal good, but for Minhyun’s—just because they were friends.

But this is a different life—just like how all the other lives were  _ different.  _ They were different people now, different bodies, different histories, different beginnings, and yet they ended all the same: with certain death. Minhyun scrubs the back of his hair.

Maybe Jonghyun had jinxed the both of them. As the years go on, he’s starting to forget their memories from the first time, but one thing is clear. Jonghyun’s words, murmured in a hopelessly deep voice into his ear: _ “We have twenty four lifetimes to go, your highness. See you in the next one.” _

Twenty five lifetimes. Four gone, and the fifth very nearly too. He glances over at Jonghyun, who sits forward and is rocking gently from side to side.  _ He  _ doesn’t have the tough spine he used to associate with him. 

“How sad is this?” Jonghyun mumbles. Even his voice is different, Minhyun despairs. Gone is the deep rasp, replaced by something higher, thinner. Something a little bit more fragile, almost like something to  _ protect,  _ instead of  _ being  _ protected. Jonghyun looks over to him and tilts his head. 

“I will heal, then I will try to kill the leader of the bandits,” Jonghyun decides wearily. He is a man-child, really. Not quite child, he sees, for there is the beginnings of a rasp intertwined into the reediness of his voice. Not quite man, for there is that childish rashness Minhyun wishes he still has. In between, not of both, and resolutely in the middle. Minhyun blinks slowly.

“You’ll need a few weeks to heal,” he advises, packing up his supplies. “For now, I will let you stay at my place. My wife comes home at night.”

“Your wife?” Jonghyun echoes. Minhyun nods sharply. 

“My wife,” he agrees, glancing up at Jonghyun. “Be nice.”

“I am always nice,” Jonghyun retaliates, although there is a strange look in his eye—almost like weary acceptance. “When am I not?”

 

In the morning, Minhyun wakes up and pecks his wife on the cheek before she steps out to tend the rice fields. The sun is creeping up above the ridge of tall mountains that close off their village to an invasion from the North, and a little ray of sunshine creeps in through the window to shine over little Hanbyul’s mattress. He pads over gently, kneels, and shakes her awake.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he whispers. His daughter stirs and stretches awake, wrapping her arms lazily around his neck before getting up. He turns back to where his wife is, sitting cross legged on their shared mat. She is praying, for their house, for their child, for the both of them. It is normal. It is routine. It is the way he’s lived this life for the past nine years. 

“Is the boy downstairs okay?” Hanbyul asks, rolling up her mat clumsily. He shrugs, and she sighs disapprovingly. “I’ll go check.”

His wife rises from her stance and folds the mat for him. He steps towards the little sliding screen that separates their sleeping area with the front garden. The patch of asters Hanbyul has been cultivating have begun to bloom, turning their purple petals to face the sun. He bends on one knee and fingers at the blossoms, rubbing the silky petals between his fingers gently. There are white chrysanthemums as well, blooming along the little stone path. He stands and turns back to the room, shutting the door behind him. 

“You’re looking a little more stressed than usual,” she murmurs. He nods once, gravely, then walks away from her. Hanbyul comes running soon, nearly knocking into him in her hurry. She bows once in apology, he inclines his head in understanding, and she blurts, “The boy is missing!”

_ “What?”  _ he demands, hurrying after her as she leads the way. They end up back in the infirmary, where the blanket he had offered Jonghyun just the night before is folded neatly. He strides over and presses the pads of his fingers into the mat. It’s cold already, with no indication that  _ someone  _ had laid there. No sign, no tell-tale indications of a human presence within the last two hours. He looks around, hoping for a note, or a letter, or anything written—

Before he remembers that Jonghyun, in this lifetime, does not know how to write.

Outside, in the pale blue sky, the sun rises, gloriously. The sharp, piercing gaze of its rays sees everything and anything. Minhyun turns his face to the sun, almost like the little patch of asters in his front garden. Perhaps—he hopes, aware of his daughter’s presence by his side—Jonghyun has gone to the bandits after all. Perhaps he will not be able to see the sun rise. Perhaps he is cold, but that is unlikely. It is late spring, turning slightly into summer. Hanbyul asked her mother to prepare cold noodles recently. There is a tug on his hand, and he glances down. 

“Why did he leave?” Hanbyul asks, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. He blinks twice, lost for words, before his brain pieces together a sentence. 

“Sometimes, Byul,” he says, “people leave. Not because they want to, but because they have to. But if your soul is bound to this person, you  _ know  _ they will come back. I don’t know if I will see him again in this lifetime, but I know I will see him once again. Do you understand, Hanbyul?”

“Yes,” she replies, the glint in her eye smart. “Just like Grandpa?”

“Exactly, sweetheart,” he smiles, painfully. “Just like Grandpa.” 

His soul flutters in his chest, as if warning him. On cue, he feels the tug against his heart, the hot, throbbing pain that races from inside him to his head. He presses his lips together and turns his face to the sun once again, hoping the brightness of it all will burn everything away, and quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plEASE COMMENT! i love u


	6. the thirteenth lifetime, minhyun

Minhyun stares at the header of the letter in shock, hand coming to cup around his mouth.

_ Dear Mr Hwang Minhyun,  _ it reads,  _ Attached below are the written report of your memories from the years 1617 to 1618, both of which centered around a certain individual by the name of Kim Jonghyun. His letter will be sent to him in two weeks. I hope that you two find happiness.  _ The letter is left unsigned, but Minhyun’s expression is already beginning to falter. He sets the letter down, next to the letter opener, and scarfs down the remainder of his breakfast. When his housemaid comes to clear his plate, she finds him staring into the distance of his estate, deep in thought.  

 

_ The newest arrival shakes his hand, clutching it firmly. He’s got a stubborn grip, and Minhyun keeps his back straight, moving forward to clutch his shoulder.  _

_ “Welcome to our little town,” Minhyun murmurs under the noise of the party. There’s someone on the violin, screeching out an Irish jig that make the entire line of the Ashwood family dance the congo, for some reason. He suspects that they are all inebriated, especially the red-faced matriarch in the middle. “It’s been a long time, Jonghyun-ah.” _

 

“How’s Doctor Kim doing nowadays?” Minhyun asks the housemaid. She nods once, decisively.

“Well enough,” she sniffs, looking away when he tries to look into her eyes. “He can support his family.”

“Family?” Minhyun echoes in confusion. His housemaid sighs. The last time he called upon the doctor was months ago for a migraine. He hasn’t seen him since.

“He has a little boy,” his old friend reveals, albeit hesitantly, “and his wife’s pregnant.”

“Interesting,” Minhyun says. Here’s what Minhyun  _ doesn’t  _ say:

He doesn’t comment on how obvious it is that his maid knows something she thought he didn’t, right up till this letter. He doesn’t talk about the look of sadness—or is it pity?—that crosses the woman’s face when he mentions Jonghyun’s name or title. He doesn’t mention that he’s still searching for answers.

For he didn’t know about his soulmate right until this letter, and now it is tearing him apart. 

 

_ “This town is homophobic,” Minhyun notes in distaste, kicking around a bit of dirt outside Jonghyun’s house. They stand facing each other, and he notices that their shoes are matched. His left foot lines up to point at the toes with Jonghyun’s, and so do his right. That’s where the similarity lies; Jonghyun has loafers on, while he’s wearing heeled black dress shoes. There’s a tie wrapped carelessly around his neck, and Jonghyun reaches out to tighten the knot against his top button. _

_ “Oh, Minhyun,” Jonghyun laughs breathlessly, quietly, to himself, “since when have you ever cared?” _

 

“Where does the Doctor live?” he asks his helper. She frowns to herself, glancing cautiously at him.

“If you are unwell, I can call upon him for you,” she deflects. 

“Martha,” he says in exasperation. “I asked for his address.”

Her shoulders slump at his cold response, and tendrils of doubt swirl in his heart. She gives him a measured look, then tells him that the Doctor lives on the other side of the city, where society ends and the alleys begin. He furrows his eyebrows in thought.

 

_ “I still don’t get why you want to live  _ here,  _ of all places,” he complains. Jonghyun fixes him a cup of tea, flavoured with red ginseng, and he takes it. “It’s unseemly.” _

_ “It’s where I’m happy,” Jonghyun argues lightly, a smile dancing around the corners of his eyes and lips. “If you want me, you’d want me to be happy.” _

_ “Of course I want you to be happy,” Minhyun brings the scalding tea to his lips, blinking away the sudden tears in his eyes. Shakily he sets down the cup, and Jonghyun mirrors his movement.  _

_ “You’re forgetting,” Jonghyun says sadly, reaching out to touch him. Instead of a warm palm against his cheek, he feels the brush of air and the barest heat. “You made this choice. Remember that, Minhyun.” _

 

He reenters society, pleased that his presence still holds sway in their community. As the heir of a renowned herbalist, he has the mothers of the gentry throwing their daughters all over him. It’s a hassle, but it pleases his ego. He flirts with some of the girls, dances with the younger ones, and drinks his alcohol with gusto. 

Someone lays a hand on his shoulder halfway through the night—the scent of vanilla and honey drifting over him—and he turns, nearly tripping over himself in his drunken haste. The person is dressed well, in a jacket the colour a deep blue that can only be achieved with the dye of a certain blueberry plant overseas. The hand on his shoulder is attached to a thin wrist—adorned with a simple gold watch—and then to slim shoulders and a lean body. Skin stretched over muscle, he observes, and tiny feet tucked into a familiar pair of loafers.

Jonghyun smiles at him warmly, and he searches his eyes. There is no sign of recognition in the chocolate brown eyes he once knew, so he tightens his mouth with disappointment. The doctor advises him to let up on the drinking, warning him of his inability to drink. Minhyun places his shot glass back onto the table and turns back to him, and Jonghyun smiles infuriatingly patiently before leaving.

 

_ “We can run away,” Minhyun grins sloppily, leaning forward to press a wet kiss against Jonghyun’s jaw. _

_ “You cannot leave, Minhyun,” Jonghyun sighs, reaching out with a hand to comb his fingers through his hair. “Your livelihood is here.” _

_ “You don’t love me,” he slurs, clearly drunk. Jonghyun’s fingers still, before they continue again, albeit more gently. _

_ “I love you,” his boyfriend argues. Minhyun is shoved off his lap—and he knows, he  _ knows  _ that this didn’t happen—and Jonghyun is staring down at his crumpled form on the floor, unable to move. His face nears, and he briefly registers that Jonghyun smells like vanilla and honey. “I love you enough to let you go.” _

 

He dresses in his best suit on the last day of the two week timeframe he’s been given, calling for his carriage. With the letter held tightly in his hand—so precious!—and the list of his memories held in the other, he sits down in the uncomfortable box, pulling at the sleeves of his blazer and adjusting his lapel pin. He needs to make sense of the entire situation, he needs to  _ understand  _ why Jonghyun let him do this: forget him. He needs to understand why Jonghyun felt the urge to forget him too. 

They drive out along the streets of polished bricks, and his horses neigh warily as they approach the fringes of the upper class society. There is an immediate change as they cross the border. He lifts the curtain with a finger, watching grubby little children run up fearlessly to the horses and squeal in delight when the horses snuffle.

“Did you hear about the Ashwood girl and the Wiltsu girl?” his driver asks, breaking the awkward silence and shaking his head. “They ran off into the sunset,” he sneers, “and they eloped.” He turns his head to exchange a look with him, but Minhyun is not so sure about society anymore, so he makes his face a blank slate. 

“Oh,” he says briefly. His driver shakes his head once more, turning back to the front and chasing the children away, then turning to face him.

“Their family would be so disappointed,” he prompts, as if expecting him to answer. “The Wiltsu girl was to inherit the estate.”

“Oh, yes,” he agrees absent-mindedly. “How unfortunate.”

It is then when it hits him—the reason why Jonghyun had been so intent on leaving their relationship in the past. The reason why Jonghyun is panicky and nervous in all the written reports, why he treats Jonghyun like glass bottle—easily shattered. The reason why the handwriting in the reports look familiar: it’s his own.

 

_ “It will work,” Jonghyun promises.  Minhyun watches stoically as the scientist ushers Jonghyun into the machine and attach the object onto his head. He’s spent the past few days writing out reports of memories, over and over again. Jonghyun has tears streaming down his face, and he mouths the words ‘I love you’. Minhyun opens his mouth, perhaps to stop him, but in a flash Jonghyun is out of the machine and staring straight at him, eyes gentle as always. _

_ “You know what happens next, Minhyun,” Jonghyun reaches forward to touch him again. He can’t feel him anymore, no semblance of heat to signify a human presence, not even a rush of wind. _

_ “What happens?” he asks, his voice shaking. _

_ “We forget,” Jonghyun whispers back softly, fading away. “Just like we agreed, Minhyun-ah. For the greater good.” _

 

He watches Jonghyun laugh, reaching out to grab hold of a black haired, blue eyed boy and swing him up into his arms. There’s someone laughing behind him, and Minhyun shifts slightly from the position in his carriage to see a heavily pregnant, blonde woman laughing from the front porch.

There’s something heavy in his throat, something that speaks of unspoken words and forgotten promises. 

_ If you want me, you’d want me to be happy.  _ He remembers the words printed onto the piece of paper. He cannot reconcile the image of him and Jonghyun together—as a romantic couple, not just as best friends—with the sight of Jonghyun in front of him. This Jonghyun is a proud father of two, with a beautiful wife, and a lovely house. He clears his throat and moves slightly forward to dismount, but the words—in his own voice—resound in his head as a warning:  _ you’d want me to be happy.  _

And he does. He wants Jonghyun to be happy, to lead a life where he forgets that he has a soulmate that is not the blonde woman smiling lovingly at him. He wants Jonghyun to lead na ordinary life for once, to live without the feeling that he’s missing something from his life, to live freely, to love another. 

He wants Jonghyun to be  _ happy.  _

 

He remains in the carriage even after the sun descends, turning the sky blood orange and yellow. When he sees the postboy round the corner, he doesn’t even think. 

 

_ “I love you,” Jonghyun murmurs into the night sky. Minhyun stands a little behind him, then comes forward and wraps his arms around him. His loved one goes still in his grip, and a drop of water drips onto his wrist. “Minhyun— _

_ “You have to let me go.” _

 

The postboy walks home with a bribe settled deep into his pockets, sure that the smiley man who took the letter meant for Doctor Kim means no harm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: next update for ANY of my works will be in 2019. (peep, middle of crossroads will be uploaded on the 1st!) see yall in the new year :) as always leave me a comment cause this period is really crucial for me and i need the support, thank you!


	7. the fifteenth lifetime, minhyun

Minhyun grins at the children who come by before after school to stare through the glass panel as he rolls out his pasta for the day. There’s one child in particular—he thinks his name is Guanlin, from what the kids scream on the streets—who pays special attention to his hands and the tools he makes. The others pester him to make butterflies and flowers, but Guanlin stays silent and watchful. Sometimes he brings out a pot of boiling water so he can cook the pasta for the children to snack on before school, but other times it is too early to start cooking anything. 

Working quickly with his hands, he cuts and rolls out the dough, moving his fingers across the pasta board with quick dexterity. In the years that he has been working on the side for this Italian restaurant off New Hamptons, he’s become used to making pasta for the head chef, who leaves the tedious job of folding the dough to him. Minhyun’s going to college in the fall, which means he needs to make as much money as possible during the summer break so that he can pay for his tuition. 

He makes his pasta quickly, emptying his workspace off the tortellini and dusting them with a light coating of flour to make sure they don’t stick. It’s easy—relaxing, even—to just focus on manipulating the dough in his hands to the desired shapes and filling them with the desired fillings. He goes through his batch of cuttlefish squid ink dough, pressing his butter knife into the little rounds to make  _ orecchiette, _ little ears of pasta. 

There’s a knock on the door sometime after noon, and he opens the back door in curiosity to find the child named Guanlin staring down at his feet.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Is anything the matter?”

“Can you teach me to make pasta?” Guanlin asks, twitching slightly. Minhyun sees his feet shift nervously, changing the weight. He puts a smile in his voice and agrees to it, letting the child in. 

It’s a strange arrangement. Minhyun doesn’t tell his boss about the new addition to the back kitchen, and Guanlin doesn’t interrupt him as he works, listening intently as he explains the twenty nine different shapes of pasta he’s been trained to make since he was ten. 

“Maybe you’ll take over me when I move to college,” Minhyun jokes, and Guanlin grins shyly, hopefully. All he’s managed to gather out of the kid is that he wants to be able to make pasta for his grandfather, who is old and ill and bedridden. He nods in respect at the display of filial piety, then teaches him how to make basic shapes out of the basic dough.

He has four weeks to impart all his knowledge to the kid, and he starts with the semolina dough. Guanlin masters the ratios of the ingredients by the third day, appearing with bright eyes and a smile that grows bigger every day. Minhyun admits that he’s become  _ fond  _ of the boy, considering him as a vital part of his everyday routine. 

He rolls out rolls of dough, using the scraper to cut the rolls into tiny pieces to demonstrate to Guanlin. Over time, he learns to set out a portion of the dough he’s using for the day so that Guanlin can try along. In the first week, Guanlin makes perfectly shaped cavatelli, and Minhyun laughs, telling him that he’d be better than him at the rate he’s improving. Guanlin beams from ear to ear and says he hopes his grandfather likes it. 

The next day, Guanlin comes leaping into the kitchen and tells him that his grandfather loved it. Minhyun ruffles the boy’s hair, washes his hands in the sink, and returns to making more pasta. They go from cencioni to capunti, bringing in the pasta board eventually. Minhyun holds him off the guitar though, worried that he’ll slice his fingers open. Guanlin learns quickly, quicker than he had, and pretty soon he’s ready to leave for college and hand over his position to his little protege. 

 

It’s three days later when Minhyun feels the weight of someone’s gaze on him. Guanlin’s expression is one of ultimate concentration, brows furrowed as he presses his fingers to create more ears of  _ orecchiette.  _ Minhyun’s accustomed to being the performing artist in the little glass box his manager calls the back kitchen. He knows, of course, that his face is what attracts attention lasting for more than five seconds of anyone’s busy day. His hand slips, and his  _ orecchiette  _ becomes a little more stretched, strained further than the original perfection he was trained to uphold. He frowns, and presses it flat, before starting again. 

There’s a knock, and he glances up sharply, Guanlin mirroring the action beside him. 

“Grandad!” the boy cheers, jerking forward. His hip hits the metal counter, and his belt makes a metallic clang. “Minhyun, can I go?”

“Yes,” he says fondly, seeing the wheelchaired man wave weakly. There’s a look of love in his eyes, as well as a face filled with wrinkles. He’s  _ old,  _ Minhyun thinks, and Guanlin dusts the flour out of his hands before running out of the door. Minhyun moves to take his spot as he leaves, fingers working automatically to prevent the dough from drying out. Outside, Guanlin takes a white paper bag with the local bakery’s logo stamped on it. It’s expensive, Minhyun knows. Guanlin’s grandfather waves Guanlin forward with a hand to say something, and Minhyun looks back down on his hands. They’re trembling.

 

Guanlin’s grandfather comes two more times in the next week, and then suddenly, he’s gone. Guanlin comes running through the backdoor with tear stained cheeks and a sullen expression. Minhyun asks no questions and hands him the dough for the day, and Guanlin works quietly, quicker than he has ever been. He presses his lips together, opening his mouth to say something. Guanlin swallows audibly and Minhyun is silenced.

 

Later, Minhyun stares unseeingly at the newspaper. Under the obituary section, he sees the name “Lee Jonghwa” has passed away. For some reason, the announcement crawls beneath his skin, and he shuts the newspaper. There’s an envelope on his dining table, and he grins to see the airplane ticket inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg school is so tiring i want to die i'm sorry for posting a day late really i wrote this in advance but it completely slipped my mind last night soRRY!!!


	8. the seventeenth lifetime, minhyun

Dongho and Kyulkyung are getting married.

Honestly, he saw this coming a long time ago, but when he suggested that they just get over their egos and marry, he didn’t expect them to do it  _ immediately. _ He’s applied for a leave (from his own company, can you believe it?) for the wedding in Jeju. It’s possibly the wedding of the year for the reporters, who are falling over themselves trying to get press passes to the event. Judging by Kyulkyung’s ambition to take over the Korean market, she’ll most likely tell them what to write instead. 

Here’s the problem: he ruined his best suit after a night with Minki and the rest of the kids. Kyulkyung keeps insisting that he gets a new one, and Dongho’s already started sending him emergency texts about her turning into Bridezilla. 

“Sir, we are here.” The driver opens the door for him, and he jerks out of his thoughts, stepping out of the car. He looks up at the building he’s been brought to in confusion.

“This isn’t my usual place.” He tells the driver, and she smiles gently.

“This place is very good, the best in the country.” She insists. “Trust me.”

Minhyun stares back at her, who crosses her arms and nods encouragingly. He turns back to the shop front. It’s a clean, minimalistic space that he gravitates to instantly. The windows are practically gleaming, with the words  **BLACK SUIT** stencilled in gold on the glass. He puts his hand on the doorknob, observing the little ‘S’ symbol above it.

Inside, it’s white and black with red accents. A man looks up once he enters, and he blinks in disbelief as he spots the top socialite Kim Heechul. He’s got a maroon shirt on, the top few buttons undone to expose the hollow of his throat and a pair of sunglasses on his head. The outfit would look downright sleazy on someone else, but the socialite carries himself with such confidence it works.

“Minhyun!” The man greets warmly, coming forward to pat his arm. “Who let the cat out of the bag?”

“This is your store?” He inquires politely.

“Yes.” Heechul grins, running his fingers over the marble countertops. “You looking for a suit for Kyulkyung’s wedding this Sunday, right?”

“How did you-”

“I know everything that happens in this city, Hwang.” He winks at him. “I’ll get my assistant to help you, hold on a second.”

“I-" He stops himself, and Heechul turns around, slipping into the back room. He takes a little tour around the shop.

Really, it’s a nice place. The black pre-made suits have been hung up in glass cases, with little fabric samples attached to the plaque so that the customers can choose. 

“Good morning.” Someone says from behind him, and he spins on the spot, nearly hitting the guy. The person reaches forward to steady him by holding on to his forearms, and he thanks him before he looks up. “You’re looking for a suit, yes?”

Minhyun opens his mouth to answer, but the words get all tangled up as he sees the shop assistant’s face.

He’s small, with a chiselled face and killer cheekbones. Dressed in a white shirt and black pants, he seems to be glowing slightly. But what draws Minhyun’s attention the most are his eyes; sparkling and round and speaking of a hundred stories untold. The inner poet in him begs for a pen, or a camera to take a picture. The assistant- he glances at the tag quickly to see his name- clears his throat after a few seconds of silence, and Minhyun blinks furiously.

“Yes.” He agrees, and Jonghyun nods. 

“I would assume that you are to dress to impress.” Jonghyun notes, leading him to the front of the shop. “Is there a particular style that has caught your eye?”

“I’m looking for a single breasted suit with a jetted pocket.” He waves a hand. “My best friend is having a wedding this Sunday.”

“Ah. Please pass on my well wishes for the couple.” Jonghyun grins, and Minhyun is stunned again when the smile spreads out from his eyes, forming wrinkles around them that are oddly endearing. “Sit down for a moment, Mr. Hwang. I’ll get you a few to try on.”

“Thanks, Jonghyun. Call me Minhyun.” He smiles back. Jonghyun nods once in acknowledgement and disappears to the backroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg i am SO sorry i legit didn't mean to disappear for a month... anyway school has been really super hard so give me some love pls :")


	9. the eighteenth lifetime, jonghyun

Jonghyun blinks in surprise at the newcomer. In front of him, Dongho goes rigid and moves to glance quickly at him, before shifting his gaze away. The music in the club slows—like some cliched rom-com—and the lights seem a little too bright all of a sudden. Minki is laughing, hand raised and fingers spread in greeting, tugging the newcomer along behind him. As always, Jonghyun’s eyes go straight to Minki’s; he looks happy, impossibly so. It’s easier to identify the cause. 

“—Jonghyun!” Minki reaches the counter and swings his entire body onto the stool, purple lights glinting off the sequins on his shirt. He snaps back to attention, the corners of his lips lifting automatically. “Wow, Dongho, you’ve been working out!”  

Dongho laughs uneasily, bringing a hand up to smooth the back of his neck. 

“Oh yeah,” their best friend grins, tugging hard at the newcomer’s hand, “this is Aron! My boyfriend!”

By some miracle, Jonghyun manages not to drop the shot glass, instead banging it down on the counter a little too hard. Aron’s eyes follow the movement, and Jonghyun smiles sheepishly before offering a stack of paper towels to Dongho. His friend has managed to cough out his beer onto his black shirt. Minki tuts at the both of them and assists Dongho in patting at the shirt to get most of the liquid out, and Jonghyun looks up at Aron.

“Hello,” he says, music ringing in his ears, “nice to meet you.”

Aron offers him a tentative smile, offering him his hand. 

“It’s nice to meet you too,” his smile widens when Jonghyun takes his hand, “Minki’s said a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” he jokes, hands moving quickly. He prepares four shots of mint vodka and passes it out. Minki rolls his eyes at him and takes the glass with dignity, claiming to have never said a single bad thing about Kim Jonghyun, their little, sweet boy from Gangwondo. Dongho shoots him increasingly worried looks, and Jonghyun, thank  _ God,  _ manages to keep it together. He downs his shot with a grin and spins off to attend to another customer. 

“Are you alright?” his new customer asks. “You look… stricken.”

“I’m fine,” he claims, pasting a sugary sweet smile on his face, “what’s your choice of poison tonight?”

“Single malt whiskey, please,” the man requests, eyeing him strangely. Jonghyun notices his almond shaped eyes, the unique facial structure of how the customer looks almost like a fox. “I hope you’re having a good night.”

“Of course I am,” Jonghyun continues smiling, seeing Minki curl a possessive hand around Aron’s wrist from the corner of his eye. “We are always happy, in here.”

The man opens his mouth, but a girl emerges from the throng of people happily gyrating to the blasting music to whisper something in his ear. His attention diverted, Jonghyun quickly passes him his drink over the counter and moves back to his friends.

“Was he causing you trouble?” Minki demands, once he’s back. Jonghyun’s heart stutters, and he shakes his head. Minki’s always watched out for him like this, just like the old times.  _ The old times.  _ Jonghyun sees Minki’s furrowed brow, sees how a little whisper from Aron can make the line on his forehead go away. 

He sees new times coming.

 

“I don’t know what he was doing, bringing his new boytoy along to  _ our  _ weekly meetings,” Dongho rants, cold compress pressed to his forehead. Jonghyun slides a pillow under his head thoughtfully, moving to clear the mess of shoes at the doorway after he had to help bring Dongho home last night. The man fell to the floor twice. Jonghyun’s a little ashamed to say he enjoyed the sight. “It doesn’t make sense. He’s never done that before.”

“They must be quite serious, then,” Jonghyun says calmly, going to wash his hands. He can see Dongho sit up from his position. Drying his hands, he takes a fortifying breath before going to sit on the couch next to his friend.

“Are you okay?” 

“I’m alright,” he nods.

“Don’t give me that bullshit, sweetheart,” Dongho bites, but his eyes are kind. “I know…”

“I’m alright,” he repeats himself, a small smile dancing on his lips “really. I’m happy for them.” Dongho, bless the boy, simply sighs and puts the cold compress over his eyes, going to lie down on the couch again. He kicks Jonghyun viciously off the couch, and Jonghyun tackles him, sitting on his legs.

 

Jonghyun goes on a bit of a shopping spree. 

He clears his wardrobe of the old, t-shirts he’s worn since high school, drags out clothing he hasn’t worn since he’s a kid (he’s barely grown, honestly) and throws away the ratty Converse he’s been wearing everywhere. The pair of ill-fitting oxfords are set aside to be sent to the Salvation Army, along with the huge, draping scarves his sisters used to buy him as gag gifts. As a momento, he keeps a baby blue, knitted one and folds it carefully, tucking it away until winter comes. 

He hits Itaewon after dropping off his old items, tucking his hands into the pockets of his favourite jeans. The black silk shirt he’s wearing is Minki’s—his own personal style is something  _ not  _ to be seen on the streets of South Korean’s most famous shopping district. 

Shopping is quite fun when he’s alone, he finds out. 

He picks out a warm, red-brown coat that’s the shade of autumn leaves and picks out a black, silk scarf to go with it. In the men’s section, he finds collared shirts that are on sale. He buys a simple white one, along with a striped one, then goes in on the more subtly unique patterns. For shoes, he decides on a nice, smart pair of black loafers and buys a pair of white sports shoes with gold stripes. He buys his first ever pair of ripped jeans, is coaxed into buying a belt with a sleek metal chain, and decides to get the same pair of jeans in dark red as well, just for the fun of it. When the bill comes out, he’s surprised to see that he hasn’t broken his account.

Jonghyun leaves Itaewon with a bunch of shopping bags and a hot pastry in hand. He’s the most content he’s ever been in a long time. 

Someone bumps into him, and the man apologises. Jonghyun nods, waving off his apologies with an easy grin, but the man stops him with a gentle hand on his wrist.

“You’re the bartender from the other night,” the man says, and Jonghyun sees something more than familiarity flash in his eyes. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Jonghyun smiles. 

“I’m Minhyun,” the man introduces himself, dropping Jonghyun’s wrist. The sudden absence of warmth does something to Jonghyun’s stomach. “Would you, uh, would you like to grab a coffee?”

Jonghyun blinks, tilting his head.

Minhyun’s easy on the eyes and seems not to be a total creep. He nods once, unsure. 

“My name is Jonghyun,” he smiles shakily. Minhyun nods like he already knows, then leads him to a little coffee shop. Jonghyun studies his side profile as they walk, and something,  _ something,  _ inside him tells him:  **_you know him._ **

 

Minhyun drops Jonghyun off at the lobby of his apartment.

“I had fun,” he whispers, and Jonghyun returns his words. For one second, Minhyun looks very unsure, almost like he’s torn between turning to go, or to kiss him. Jonghyun’s freeze, torn between stepping forward or stepping away. 

“Okay,” Minhyun breathes, “I need to go.”

That little  _ something  _ in Jonghyun’s chest seizes.  **_Don’t go,_ ** his mind demands.

“Don’t go,” he repeats, then presses his lips together when he realises what he’s said. Minhyun’s eyes lift to meet his in, in  _ wonder.  _ And a little bit of awe. Jonghyun shrugs sheepishly. “I know you. Somehow.”

“Yes,” Minhyun agrees, “we knew each other. A long time ago.”

Jonghyun’s breath sounds loud and obnoxious to him, but he steps forward and catches Minhyun’s hand. Minhyun’s eyes lock onto his, intense and  _ searching. _

“We have time for a long story, don’t we?” Jonghyun questions.

_ Something _ shifts in Minhyun’s eyes, and they are wide and sparkling. Jonghyun can’t help but feel the distance between them, so close, and yet so far.  **_Stay._ **

“Yes,” Minhyun allows, turning his hand so their fingers are laced together. “We have lifetimes, yet.”


	10. the twenty fifth lifetime, minhyun

In this lifetime, everything is near perfect. Jonghyun grows up in a neighbourhood with a low crime rate, while Minhyun grows up next door. Unlike the last time, no one moves away. They go to school together, and fate pushes them together until they are in the same university. Staying with Jonghyun long-term is something new to Minhyun—he has to get used to the ‘organised messes’ and the sight of Jonghyun’s bed hair in the morning. Sometimes they fight about who left the last mug in the sink and forgot to wash it, but it is always Jonghyun who winds up cleaning up because Minhyun is adamant that he would always clean up after himself. Jonghyun gets irritated with Minhyun when he studies in the library, doesn’t eat, and comes home with gastric pains. He scolds him, then fixes them a warm pot of ramen (which only he will eat) because they are both broke students with no trust fund.

But Minhyun is content, listening to lectures about alien activity and having Jonghyun’s hand curled up in his next to him. Nothing has been established, but people generally accept that when there is Jonghyun, there is Minhyun most likely around the corner. They’re taking it slow, and seem to no longer be in life threatening situations, which is a relief. 

You’d think Minhyun would have grown tired of Jonghyun’s constant presence in his life. Yet every day is a new adventure, and he knows something new about his best friend each day. 

He knows how Jonghyun likes his vanilla lattes, which bookstore he frequents for the cheapest vintage manga, how long it takes for Jonghyun to walk home from the library during exam season, and how Jonghyun likes to paint to destress. He also knows that Jonghyun is a morning person, needs less sleep than he does, is cranky in the late afternoons, and how he enjoys coddling his junior, Guanlin. There is a backstory there, about how Jonghyun remembers a kid servant helping him in his second lifetime. He’s not sure of the details, but Jonghyun takes extra good care of him. He’s not jealous, not really.

Minhyun takes all of this down into his journal, worn and tattered. It’s his favourite one, the same brand as the one he used to write lyrics in when he was a singer. Those were good days. He is content. 

Jonghyun leans over the kitchen counter to ask him to taste some stew he’s making. Minhyun’s mouth falls open on instinct, and Jonghyun blows lightly on the spoon and feeds him.

“It’s good,” he murmurs, placing his pen down. Jonghyun grins brightly, and takes a long swig from the glass of milk he has on the counter. Minhyun laughs at the white moustache covering his lips and swipes it off with his finger. Jonghyun’s smile turns sheepish, and Minhyun sighs, coming forward to kiss him over the counter.

It’s warm, soft, and familiar—he feels like he is coming home. Jonghyun parts his lips slightly, and he leans back. 

“You should put the spoon down,” he advises warmly, “and turn that fire off.” Jonghyun laughs at that and turns away to turn off the stove. Minhyun’s attention flickers, there is something calling out to him on his dashboard. He focuses—

“Do we need to charge you again?” Jonghyun asks, turning off the lights in the kitchen. Minhyun smiles and shrugs.

“No wonder I was feeling a little sleepy and sentimental,” he puts it at that. Jonghyun sighs and catches his wrist with the gentlest touch, leading him to his room. He lies down, fumbling for the cable tucked under the pillow. Jonghyun guides his fingers to it, helping him plug it in when it is clear that he is too tired to function normally. His vision becomes a little clearer once he starts charging, and Jonghyun presses his lips to his forehead and wishes him goodnight. He huffs out a breath, “Stay.” His best friend turns and rolls his eyes.

“You’ll shock me,” he warns, and Minhyun beams.

“Have a little faith in technology, Jonghyun-ah,” he returns, and Jonghyun laughs. 

“I’ll brush my teeth and wash my face,” he decides. “Not everyone has perfect skin like you.”

“There is no one like me,” Minhyun shoots back. Jonghyun laughs, then ducks out of the door to wash up before bed.

Minhyun closes his eyes. He doesn’t need to sleep for very long, just log off the internet. Their bill has been going up lately with how much he’s been active, but Jonghyun normally pats his hand and tells him that it’s okay. 

Jonghyun is an older model, not as new as he is. Before his specifications were introduced, most parents chose the Jonghyun’s model as a guide for their own children. He’s unique, a little more so, because he is the test experiment for the first automaton with the ability to sustain himself through food, or through charging. Jonghyun’s still human, just… advanced. Better sight, better hearing, better  _ everything,  _ essentially. The perfect human, built for a perfect world.

“Hey,” Jonghyun says, sliding into the sheets and wrapping an arm loosely around his waist, “I can  _ see  _ you thinking.”

Minhyun’s hand raises and lands in his lap weakly, but Jonghyun understands. Jonghyun always understands—he takes his palm and rests it against his cheek. Jonghyun is warm.

“Sleepy?” he asks, and he hums softly in his throat. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Mmphf,” he tries to protest, but Jonghyun grip is firm and unrelenting. His soulmate reaches out and uses the pads of his fingers to smooth his eyelids closed, and then there is blackness and—

—nothing.

 

When he opens his eyes, the window is slightly open. There is the gentlest of a spring breeze drifting through the room. Minhyun glances down and sees Jonghyun pressed up against him, eyes closed. Softly, he nudges him. 

“You’re up,” Jonghyun says, eyes closed.

“You could have started studying,” Minhyun whispers, his voice a harsh croak. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”

Jonghyun unfurls and stretches, tilting his neck as if popping his joints. Minhyun watches him warm up for the day, memorising the curve of his jaw and the slant of his eyes. He resembles a little bit like the cat they saw in the bushes on the way home the other day. 

“I waited anyway,” Jonghyun retaliates, shuffling closer so that he can press their foreheads together before moving away. “Now, get up. Graduation examinations are coming.”

Minhyun watches as Jonghyun slides easily off the bed, standing up and padding his way over to the toilet so he can wash up. Minhyun scrubs at his face and gets up as well, making the bed with hospital corners, because that’s the way he was brought up. Not really brought up, but it’s the only way he knows how to make a bed. 

“We’re meeting Seongwoo at the college cafe,” Jonghyun orders from the bathroom, where he can hear the sound of running water. “Can you butter a piece of bread for me? With peanut butter!”

“Yeah,” he calls back, walking briskly to the kitchen so he can make breakfast. Two cups of coffee into the matching white mugs, two slices of bread laid out onto the blue plates with the gold rim.

“Thanks, Minhyun-ah,” Jonghyun’s voice is muffled from where he is scrubbing at his hair with a fluffy blue towel. He looks adorable like that, like a soft animal stepping out from the hose. There’s that disgruntled expression on his face too.  “I think Daniel and Jaehwan are coming after class.”

“Isn’t Hyunbin working at the cafe today?” Minhyun asks, sipping his coffee. Jonghyun stops to think, then nods and sits down at the tiny table opposite him. “We’ll be in full attendance today.”

“Yeah,” Jonghyun agrees, a smile playing on his lips. “Just like the old times.”

“What was that they used to call us?” he asks, knowing that Jonghyun’s body is looking at him, but not so much so his  _ mind.  _ He knows Jonghyun is looking far away, into the past, into nearly three centuries ago. He knows the answer to his question, but sometimes… 

Sometimes Jonghyun forgets. Sometimes Jonghyun forgets that they have lived this life, in different dimensions, different universes, different realities. Sometimes Jonghyun forgets the lives they’ve had together; and the lives they’ve spent apart; and they lives they’ve spent alive; and the lives they’ve spent dead. Sometimes, Jonghyun forgets. It breaks Minhyun’s heart a little, but it’s okay. They make things work. Things work, but they are not perfect, and that is perfectly fine with him. 

“Justice League,” his partner murmurs, face uncertain when he looks up at him. “That was the name, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Minhyun agrees, reaching out to pat his hand. Jonghyun’s hand flips up automatically to take his hand, intertwining their fingers together. It’s a perfect fit, just as he knew it would be. “We had fun.”

“Good times,” Jonghyun echoes, expression a little wistful. Minhyun clenches his hand once, and a look passes between the both of them. Words, unspoken. “Hey, Minhyun?”

“Yeah?” he asks wryly. The same look of uncertain longing crosses Jonghyun’s face. Minhyun wants to kiss that look of his face and replace it with the smile he loves so,  _ so  _ much. The smile that spreads from his eyes and make the stars in his irises shine brighter. Jonghyun opens his mouth—

“How many lifetimes do we have left?”

Jonghyun’s question leaves him reeling for a bit. He knows the number left; a solid zero. He knows that Jonghyun is ultimately an advanced human, that he has his very own expiry date. He knows that he is not human, that he will live forever unless he chooses to terminate his life. He knows that Jonghyun is losing his memories of the past twenty four lifetimes they’ve had together.

Truth to be told, he had been losing his memories too. But this body, and this brain, brings forward all the memories, almost like a refresher—a crash course in lifetimes, if you will. He smiles lopsidedly at his best friend, his brother, his lover, his soulmate.

“An eternity of lifetimes to go, Jonghyun-ah,” he promises, nudging Jonghyun’s cooling cup of coffee nearer to him. “Don’t worry, we’ve got plenty of time.”

When the time comes, when Jonghyun’s ‘expiry date’ comes—

He will know what to do. 

  
  
  
  
  


It’s true, what they say, about love

being an ocean.

Love is something bigger than yourself;

wide, vast, unrelenting,  _ overflowing. _

It is tossing yourself into the violent, turbulent waters,

and emerging refreshed, wet, salty,

your eyes stinging and your limbs heavy.

It is taking the risk, enjoying the thrill,

hating the waves that threaten to drown you,

and fighting your way to the surface so you can

breathe.

And if the time is  _ just  _ right,

if you emerge  _ just _ in time to see the sun 

rise or set beneath the waters,

painting everything

in glorious gold and reds and pinks and oranges and yellows,

then you will have found your harbour.

Your voyage ends  _ exactly _ where you started;

Smiling faces and warm hands and

a kiss to your temple,

and the whisper:

“Welcome home.”

A safe haven, where you will remain

for the rest of your days,

all of them,

_ forever. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has been due for too freaking long now. i'm sorry i keep forgetting to publish this even though i finished it ages ago. school has been really hard but i'm finally starting to see some results that i can be proud of so. thank you to everyone who's stuck by this. i really, really appreciate all the supportive comments and the kudos! this will probably be the last time i update before i disappear back into school but. yeah. thanks to everyone!! pls comment below if you liked this cos it makes me super happy and appreciated, thank you :)

**Author's Note:**

> told you so about the death.
> 
> comment below, as usual. i hate posting works into the void and honestly i lose motivation if i don't get a response sO...
> 
> jk, love ya, and you have a great day ahead okay?
> 
> (also you can follow me on Twitter @wildflower_kjh !! i scream a lot about my daily life and nu'est and writing stuff so if you like that kinda stuff go on and follow me!)


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